


Outtakes: Star Trek (AOS)

by Thistlerose



Series: Streams That Never Find the Sea -aka- Outtakes [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Deleted Scenes, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outtakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:22:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 13,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6302536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes (both complete and mostly-complete) that never made it into actual stories. Ships, ratings, and warnings differ by chapter so see notes for more information.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The one where a thunderstorm keeps all the Kirks awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, General Audiences, Winona, Sam, & Jim
> 
> I'm pretty sure this was supposed to be for a challenge, but I can't remember which. I'm not sure how it was supposed to end, though judging by the name of the file ("blanket forts") I guess Winona was going to have Sam build something out of the bedding?

The first thunderclap rattles the farmhouse’s windows and wakes the baby. He snuffles uncertainly for a moment, and Winona holds her breath, ready to get up if she has to, but hoping he’ll settle back down on his own. 

No luck. This is Jim, after all; if he’s awake, the whole world needs to know about it. The incessant drumbeat of the rain is almost enough to drown out his piercing wail, but not quite. With a groan, Winona kicks back her quilt and rolls out of bed. She scoops her writhing, screaming son out of his bassinet and holds him against her, rubbing soothing circles into his back, and murmuring, “Shh, shh. It’s okay. It’s just a storm. Shh, you don’t wanna wake up your brother.”

Who does she think she’s kidding? Nobody could sleep through this.

In any case, her words have no effect, or maybe Jim catches the desperation in her tone. He can probably feel her wild heartbeat. 

“It’s okay,” she tries again, kissing his silky curls and rocking him in her arms. “Please go back to sleep.” Each lightning flash floods the bedroom with ghostly light, throwing shadows that look like fingers across the floor and the bed, and turning Jim’s healthy skin sallow.

Jim continues to scream and beat the air with his small fists.

“What if I fed you?” Winona asks “Will that shut you up?” She sinks onto the edge of the bed and, holding Jim with one arm, she tugs at the ribbon holding her nightgown closed. At first, he stubbornly refuses her nipple, but she persists and, after a few minutes, he latches on.

Relief sweeps through her. With a sigh, she sags back against her pillows and her eyes flutter closed. “That’s my good boy,” she murmurs, stroking his wet cheeks, tracing his tiny, perfect ears with her fingertips. The rest of the world begins to recede. “Good boy.”

She almost doesn’t hear the tentative tap on her bedroom door. Like everything else, it seems very far away. Then another thunderclap, one that sounds like boulders slamming together, shakes the farmhouse and the tapping becomes an insistent knock.

“Come on in,” Winona calls. 

The words are barely out of her mouth when four-year-old Sam throws open the door and comes bounding across the bedroom floor in his footsie pajamas, his stuffed rabbit tucked tightly under his arm. Without a word, he scrambles onto the bed and cuddles up against her, curling his fingers in her nightgown.

Winona wraps her free arm around his shoulders. “Thunder wake you up, buddy?”

He nods vigorously, without raising his head, and the fist clutching at her nightgown tightens.

“It’s okay,” she starts to tell him, but another loud rumble drowns her out, and all she can do until it passes is sigh and hold her boys tightly against her.

When it’s quiet again except for the rain, Sam mumbles something.

“What, buddy?”

“I said I _hate_ storms,” he snuffles.

Winona looks at the window, at the tree branches silhouetted against the lace curtains, writhing in the fierce wind. “I do too,” she says. Then she’s quiet as she remembers another storm, eight months old but still fresh in her mind. She’ll never forget it, or the thing that emerged from it, that tentacled monstrosity of a ship that devoured the _Kelvin,_ her captain, and her husband. It’s still out there somewhere, she knows. Starfleet sent a squadron of ships after it, but they never found it.

A flash of lightning briefly illuminates the towering purple clouds. Winona and Sam clutch at each other instinctively, but Jim suckles on in peace, content and oblivious. "You know," Winona whispers to Sam when the room is dark again, "you can tell how far away the storm is by how closely the thunder follows the lightning. You count: _one alligator, two alligator, three allig--_ "

The farmhouse shudders.

When the thunder has passed, Sam lifts his head cautiously and frowns up at Winona. "Why alligator?"

"No reason," she says. "I just like the word. Some people say _Mississippi_."

"Missi-what?"

"Mississippi. That's one of the states. You know, like Iowa but farther south. It's also a river. In the morning, I'll show you on a map."

"Okay. So, how far _is_ the storm?"

"Pretty close. After you finish counting, you divide by five and that's how many miles away the storm is. This one isn't even a whole mile away. Do you know how far a mile is?"

He shakes his head.

"It's about how far away the playground is, the one with the red slide."

"That's not that close."

"Well…" Winona smiles and closes her eyes for a moment. "When you've been halfway across the galaxy, it feels close." Remembering their last trip to the playground, she adds, "Maybe when your legs are a little longer, it'll feel close." Lightning. Her eyes are still closed, but she feels Sam tense up. "One alligator," she prompts him. "C'mon. Two alligator…"

"Three alligator," Sam whispers. "Four alligator, five…"

Thunder.

"It's farther away," Winona says. Jim seems to have had enough; now he's just blowing little milk bubbles against her skin. She discreetly tucks her breast back into her nightgown, then lifts Jim to her shoulder and starts to rub his back gently. "Sam, could you grab me that little towel? That one, over by the bassinet." She has to point with her chin.

"Is the storm going away?" Sam asks cautiously.

"I think so."

"Are you _sure_?"

" _Yes,_ " she says with a note of exasperation, which she instantly regrets.


	2. The one where Spock tells Nyota about T'Pring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All audiences, Spock/Uhura
> 
> In the aftermath of his planet's destruction, Spock decides to be perfectly honest with Nyota.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IIRC, she was going to be justifiably angry with him for keeping something this big a secret from her, but then she was going to forgive him.

After seeing his father and the other surviving members of the Vulcan High Council to their shuttle, Spock went in search of Nyota. Knowing that he could have contacted her quickly and easily with his communicator, he chose instead to wander the grounds of Starfleet Academy, glancing into the library, the observatory, and other likely hideouts. It was a pleasant evening; the sky was purple, the breeze soft and fragrant. Moreover, he told himself, the matter was not urgent. 

(In his head, Jim Kirk laughed at him and called him a chicken.)

He found her eventually in the botanical gardens, seated on a wrought iron bench under the silvery boughs of a tree. She seemed engrossed in the book in her lap, but she looked up when she heard his footsteps, and smiled.

It was a tired smile, but the light in her eyes was warm, encouraging. 

Nevertheless, it was a few moments before he spoke. At first he simply stood there looking at her, hands clasped firmly behind his back. After a time, she frowned, closed her book, and rose. Even exhausted – there had been time to sleep since their return to Earth, but it would take some time to recover fully from the rigors of their first mission – she was the most graceful person that he had ever seen. Her unbound hair waved gently as she crossed the short distance between them. Then she was standing quite close and he could smell her hair, the perfumed oils she used to straighten it, and underneath that, the sweet coolness of her skin. 

He wanted to hold her, to clasp her slender waist with his hands and press his cheek to her hair. But he said, "Nyota, there is something that I must tell you."

*

He would say no more while they stood in the garden, where anyone could wander past, and she knew better than to press him. So they walked in silence to his temporary quarters. Once there, he sat on the edge of the bed and she went to get two cups of steaming green tea from the replicator. Handing one to him, she said gently, "All right. Can you tell me now?"

"Yes." He sipped the tea, then set the cup down on the nightstand and looked at her, his hands resting lightly on his knees.

"If it's bad," Nyota said, cradling her teacup, "it sometimes helps to – just spit it all out quickly. _Is_ it bad? Has something happened to your father, or to—"

He shook his head. "No," he said, and drew a deep breath. But he couldn't "spit it all out quickly." That wasn't his way, wasn't the Vulcan way, and perhaps she ought to have known that, but when he looked into her eyes all that he read there was concern. So, in slow, dispassionate tones, he told her about T'Pring.

Not the ritual that might have bound him to her had she not perished with her planet, but the girl herself, as he had known her at the time of their engagement that was more than an engagement but less than a marriage.

She listened calmly while he spoke. Then, when he fell silent, she nodded and looked away. "I see," she said at length. Her long nails drummed staccato against the porcelain teacup. "I see. And when were you planning on telling me this?"

"I am telling you now." 

Her jaw tensed.

"I had hoped," he said, wanting to reach for her but knowing that he had better not, "that I would not have to tell you. Not," he added when she sucked in a sharp breath, "because I did not want you to know, but because…I did not think it relevant. T'Pring was a part of my past. Now she will only be a part of my past. And I had hoped…" He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase what he next wanted to tell her.

"If she was part of your past, why didn't you break off the engagement?"

"It is not that simple. The manner in which we were bound… The dissolution of our bond required…special circumstances."

"What sort of circumstances? Death?"

It would be easy, he thought, _easier_ , if he could simply have said, "Yes." It would not have been a lie, but then she might have asked him which partner's death was required, and in what manner. And that was _not_ something that he could tell her. 

"I had hoped," he said instead, "that in choosing my mother's people and distancing myself from Vulcan, the bond between T'Pring and me would have been…ignored. Now we shall never know."


	3. The one where Spock tries to resign from Starfleet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish (I had Spock/Uhura in mind, but it's never explicitly indicated indicated), featuring Kirk, Uhura, and Spock
> 
> Feeling (justifiably) guilty about beating the crap out of Kirk, Spock tries to offer his resignation. Naturally, Kirk doesn't accept.

Outtake one:

 

The morning after Bones released him from the hospital, Jim met Spock in the botanical garden on the Starfleet Academy campus. Spock had chosen the time and place, and presumably he had an agenda, though he’d been suspiciously evasive when Jim asked him what he wanted to discuss. Assuming it had something to do with Lieutenant Uhura – Jim would have to tell Spock that, for all his experience with women, he knew next to nothing about actually maintaining a relationship – he didn’t worry too much. 

Perhaps he should have. Still, he could have spent the entire night worrying – it would have been very Bones-ish of him – and it would not have occurred to him that Spock might be considering resigning his command and leaving Starfleet altogether.

“Wait,” Jim spluttered, glad he was sitting down, and that he’d set aside his thermos of hot coffee the moment Spock began talking. “Wait, _what?_ ”

“Effectively immediately,” Spock said. “I think it would be best.”

“Oh, do you?” Jim glared up at Spock, who stood at parade rest, regarding him mildly. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Captain, as you are aware, my species does not indulge in—”

“Okay, _okay_.” Jim cut him off with an abrupt wave of his hand. “You’re not joking, you’re— I don’t believe this. I really don’t believe that this is happening. Are you going to tell me _why_?”

“Naturally,” said Spock. “As my commanding officer and my friend, it is your right to know.” He hesitated, and in that instant, it became shatteringly real for Jim. Spock was leaving.

Outtake two:

The moment Uhura’s face appeared on Jim’s viewscreen, he knew there was trouble. The first word out of her mouth confirmed it.

“Captain.” Uhura’s tone was crisp, businesslike. Her chin was up, and while Jim couldn’t see her hands, it was clear from her posture that they were clasped behind her back. “We have a situation.”

Jim was at a loss. He’d only just been released from the hospital six hours ago; he hadn’t even spent one night in his new room at Starfleet Headquarters. Uhura shouldn’t even be calling him captain, since his fine ship lay in pieces at the moment, and those of her crew that had survived were in hardly better shape. And anyway, how could they be having a situation? 

Speculation was pointless. With a sigh and a weary headshake he said heavily, “I’m listening.”

“Captain, Spock is on his way over to you right now. To offer you his resignation.”

It almost knocked him off his feet. “Say that again.”

“You heard me. I tried to talk him out of it, but—” Her shoulders sagged and a look of pain crossed her face. “I couldn’t. He’s determined. But I wanted to warn you, in case you… But there isn’t much time.” She was rapidly coming undone. Jim could imagine her slender fingers twisted together behind her back, straining to hold her together.

“Lieutenant, calm down. You’re not making sense. Why is Spock _resigning_? You’re saying he doesn’t just want to leave _Enterprise_ , he wants out of Starfleet altogether. _Why_?” He was talking to avoid thinking, and from the look on Uhura’s face, she knew it. Flailingly, he threw in: “Is this some kind of prank?”

She had every right to take offense at the suggestion. The fact that she only looked tired told him all he needed to know. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at once, glancing down at his hands. “That was unprofessional, and…” Unkind? Unfriendly? Were they friends?

“There’s no time for this,” Uhura said. “He’ll be there any second, and I didn’t want you to be caught off guard.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered.

“Jim, I’m sor—” 

Before the word was quite out of her mouth, the door chimed. Jim’s head jerked up, and his eyes met Uhura’s. They exchanged a brief look, and she nodded, apparently accepting his silent promise to try. Then the viewscreen went dark, and Jim gave himself three seconds to breathe deeply, straighten the shirt of his off-duty uniform, and turn to face the door. Unconsciously adopting Uhura’s parade rest, he said – _croaked_ , really – “Enter.”


	4. The one where Gary Mitchell decides to hit on Carol Marcus (and Christine Chapel disapproves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish, featuring Gary Mitchell, Christine Chapel, and Carol Marcus
> 
> The first of several attempts to get Christine and Carol together at the Academy. *g* Gary was going to get rebuffed, and later Christine was going to run into Carol and discover that the object of her friend's crush is actually attracted to _her_. (Carol/Christine is the only good thing to come out of "Into Darkness," as far as I'm concerned.)

Gary jostled Christine's arm as they were leaving the lecture hall. "Did you see that girl in the front row?"

Christine gave him a sideways look, hugging her PADD to her chest. "There were a number of _women_ in the front row," she said pointedly. "Which one did you mean?"

"Aw, you know which one. The gorgeous blonde with the English accent? The one with all the answers? You know who I'm talking about."

"Cadet Marcus," said Christine. "What about her?"

"I think I'm gonna ask her out."

"You think?"

"Okay, fine, I am _planning_ to ask her out. What do you think?"

They'd left the science quadrangle behind, by then, and were headed in the direction of Starfleet Medical, where Christine had a shift in about twenty minutes. The short grass, hard with frost, crunched under their booted feet.

Christine shrugged. "She's too smart for you. And too beautiful."

"She's too everything for me. D'you know who her father is?"

"No."

Gary bent close to her ear and whispered, "Her father's Admiral Marcus, but I don't think she wants anyone to know."

Christine stopped walking. She turned and looked up at him sharply. "If that's true," she said, "then how do _you_ know? And why are you telling me?"

Gary had the grace to look at least somewhat chagrined. He ducked his head and scratched the back of his neck. "To answer your second question, it's because you're my friend. And I trust you more than I trust most of the guys I know. As for your first question…" He looked at her through his long dark lashes and smiled that unnervingly charming smile of his. "Call it intuition."

"Gary," she sighed.

"What?" he said, stepping away from her and flinging his hands wide in a gesture of innocent irresponsibility. "It's a gift!"

"I know," said Christine. "I just wish…"

"What?" Gary prompted her after a few quiet beats. "What do you wish?" He cocked his head rakishly. "That I be careful?"

"Well, yes, but…" She trailed off again, and this time he let it go without remark. The truth was, Christine rather envied him his gift for intuition. She wished that she could read people as well as Gary did. It would be useful in the hospital, for one thing; Starfleet tended to attract the stoic type, the sort who had to be practically bleeding out before they'd admit they were experiencing even mild discomfort. For another thing, it would make relationships so much easier, or so Christine imagined. While she wouldn't have wanted to know every notion that passed through her fiance's mind - she wasn't _that_ interested in robotics - it would, perhaps, have been nice to know that he was having second thoughts about their marriage.

Or maybe it wouldn't have. Maybe there were things about people that she was just better off not knowing. Christine was rather reserved by nature, and a firm believer in boundaries; outside the hospital, she tended not to ask probing questions, especially of strangers or of people she'd only just met. She doubted that she and Gary Mitchell would have become friends if he hadn't bumped into her on her very first day in San Francisco and "sensed" her confusion and need for some gentle guidance as she navigated a strange, new city. (He'd also shown remarkable discretion, noting her warning glance and avoiding asking too many questions about why she'd suddenly chosen to join Starfleet.)

"I'm gonna go do it," Gary said. "Ask her, I mean. Wish me luck?"

"Good luck," Christine said because she liked Gary. "Not that you'll need it."


	5. The one where Liz Dehner keeps getting mistaken for Carol Marcus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen-ish, featuring Elizabeth Dehner, Carol Marcus, Gary Mitchell, and Christine Chapel
> 
> Look, they look alike! Liz was going to be drawn into Christine and Carol's friendship, only to find that Carol basically wants her there to keep her from blurting out her feelings for Christine. And we were going to learn that Christine dyes her hair. IDK. It was a reference to Majel.

Liz didn't recognize the young woman standing over her in the Starfleet Academy coffee shop, but she smiled anyway and said, "Hi."

"Hullo," said the young woman, sliding unasked into the seat opposite Liz's. "You're Elizabeth Dehner, aren't you?" She had an English accent, shoulder-length blond hair, and - most arrestingly - heterochromatic eyes; one was blue, the other a sort of grayish-green.

"I am," Liz replied, setting down her Vulcan mocha and lifting her eyebrows.

"As soon as I saw you, I thought you had to be. I'm Carol Marcus, by the way." She extended her hand for Liz to shake. She had a strong grip and warm, dry skin. "Since I got here, people have been telling me we looked alike. I think it's the hair."

Liz fingered her own shoulder-length blond hair. "It must be."

"I'm not bothering you, am I?"

"Oh, no," said Liz truthfully. "I was just reviving myself after my morning classes. I have a few hours in the clinic this afternoon. _Then_ I have to study."

"The clinic? Are you med-track, then?"

"Yes," said Liz. 

"What field?"

"Psychiatry."

"Oh, how interesting. You don't happen to know my friend, Christine Chapel, do you? She's a nurse. She's also blonde," Carol added somewhat irrelevantly, but Liz was amused.

"No, I don't think I do. I mean, we might have met, but--"

"Oh, you'd like her," said Carol, so enthusiastically that Liz had to laugh. She didn't know about Christine Chapel, but she was fairly sure that she already liked this mysterious Englishwoman. 

"What track are you?" she asked, lifting her mug to take a sip.

"Sciences," Carol replied. "I actually have a doctorate in applied physics." She paused, and it seemed to Liz that she'd been about to say more. Instead, she glanced down at her fingers, which were laced together on the table. Looking up, she quirked her lips in an oddly closed-off smile.

Liz was curious, but she didn't ask Carol to go on. This wasn't a psych eval, after all; it was just an odd, though not at all unwelcome conversation with a person she'd never met before. Finally she said, "You're new this semester?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

_Yes,_ thought Liz, but she shrugged and said, "I just wondered."

Clearly picking up on what Liz hadn't said, Carol laughed ruefully. "I'm just forward by nature. But it's true, I'm new at the Academy. I've been here before, plenty of times, actually. My father's in Starfleet." Again, there was a fractional pause, and Liz wondered what it was that Carol obviously wanted to blurt out but didn't dare. "Anyway, I guess I should let you go, shouldn't I? Sounds like you've got a mad schedule, and this is your only free moment. I didn't mean to monopolize your time; I've just been incredibly curious about my supposed clone."

"It's fine," said Liz. "Until today, I didn't know I had a clone. Although…" She frowned as a memory came to her. "Now that I think about, about a month ago, Dr. Winston in Astrophysics gave me the strangest look."

"Dr. Winston's one of my instructors."

"Hmm. Maybe she thought she was seeing double. Well, there's one mystery solved."

Carol unlaced her fingers and rose. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

"I'd like that," Liz told her honestly.

~*~

It was two weeks before she saw Carol again. In that time, Liz was mistaken for her twice. The first time, she was out for an early morning run when she heard someone behind her shouting, "Hey! Wait up!" She turned around, jogging in place until the cadet who'd addressed her caught up. Liz didn't recognize the young woman, and judging by her surprised blink, she didn't recognize Liz either.

"Oh, sorry," she said, sheepishly tugging a hand through her short black curls. "From behind, I thought you were someone else. It's the hair."

"It's all right," Liz said and, turning again, continued on her way through the morning fog.

The second time, she was bent over her PADD in the library, engrossed in a paper on various treatments for transporter phobia. As the library was rather crowded that afternoon, she didn't look up when she heard footsteps close behind her. But she almost screamed in surprise when someone reached over her shoulder, plucked her stylus right out of her fingers and drawled, "What'll you give me if I give this back to you?"

Liz knew at once that she'd been mistaken for Carol, but she didn't feel like being polite about it. "Nothing," she said frostily as she turned and glared.

He had the decency to appear chagrined. "Oh, damn. I'm sorry. From behind, you look like--"

"So I've been told."

"Sorry," he said again. "Take it as a compliment?" When she said nothing, he added, "Now that I see your face, I realize-- Aw, hell. You _do_ look alike. Similar enough, anyway."

"Similar enough for what? We're not interchangeable."

"Of course not," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to imply that. Sorry." He held out her stylus and she took it.

She thought that he would leave then, maybe go and find the real Carol Marcus and bother her. Instead, he shuffled a little closer and ducked his head. "So," he said in a softly modulated tone, looking up at her through long, dark lashes. "I'm Gary, by the way."

"We're not interchangeable!"


	6. The one where Carol pines for Christine (and bangs someone else)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated teen, featuring Carol/OFC and Carol pining for Christine
> 
> What it says on the tin. Poor Carol. I never did get them together in a complete story.

Carol had almost gotten used to having Christine Chapel back in her life. Almost: there were still moments – rare ones, thankfully – when she’d glance up from her console or step out of the turbolift, and her eyes would meet Christine’s, and they’d share a smile, and Carol’s heart would wriggle like a hopeful puppy.

She never let it show. After spending four years at the Academy with Christine, she was _good_ at not letting it show. Christine had no idea. She thought Carol had gotten over her romantic feelings a long time ago because that was what Carol wanted her to think. 

As far as Carol knew, only three people were aware of the truth. One was her Academy friend and psychiatrist Elizabeth Dehner; Carol had contacted her after the incident with Khan and her father, and that was one of the many, many things she’d blurted in one of their late-night (by _Enterprise_ ’s clock) conversations. Another was Leonard McCoy, who’d developed a gruff fondness for her after she’d disarmed the torpedo he’d gotten his hand stuck in; he’d known something was wrong from the moment Christine materialized on the _Enterprise_ , and to spare him the trouble of sussing it out, she’d just told him. He’d been kind about it; he’d offered her a finger of bourbon and a sympathetic ear any time she needed it.

The third was Galanna, the Betazoid ambassador’s young assistant. Lying across Carol’s bed, her cheek cupped in her hand, her luxurious dark hair spilling across her bare back, she’d said calmly, “You’re thinking of another woman right now, aren’t you? Someone aboard this ship. Someone ... with blonde hair and dark blue eyes.”

Embarrassed, Carol had jerked her head in a nod and stared fixedly at the veins in her crossed wrists.

Without jouncing the bed, Galanna had reached over and gently tucked a lock of hair back behind Carol’s ear. “I’m not hurt,” she said, her voice soft and low. She had a pretty accent, Carol thought, not for the first time: guttural, but not harsh. “What we shared was lovely,” Galanna went on, running Carol’s hair between her fingers, “but we both know there’s no future for us. You should talk to her, let her know how you feel. You have much to gain.”

Carol raised her head. She glanced once at Galanna’s black eyes, then looked over her shoulder at the porthole, at the stars streaking by. “And much to lose,” she said.

“Perhaps. There’s an old Earth saying that I’m fond of: ‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’”

Carol’s lips twitched at the old cliché, but she didn’t say anything. Galanna went on stroking her hair, and after a few moments Carol looked back at her. And smiled. “Thank you for understanding,” she said.

“You deserve to be happy,” said Galanna.

“I’m not _un_ happy.” And then, because she didn’t want to talk further, and because Galanna’s hand had drifted lower and was now cupping Carol’s breast, massaging the nipple with the pad of her thumb, she caught a lock of that dark, dark hair and, twining it around her own fingers, she leaned in for a kiss.


	7. The one where Jim and Bones talk about their sexual history

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated Mature for SEX, featuring Jim & Bones, with mentions of past Bones/Jocelyn
> 
> I feel like this was meant to be part of the [So Effed Up We Belong Together](http://archiveofourown.org/series/6666) 'verse. The file is called "Morning After," so. I'm also pretty sure I'd meant to give Bones an angsty backstory, specifically regarding sex. Not rape or anything like that, just a series of negative experiences that kind of put him off dating men for a while. *shrug* But there was already so much crap going on that it felt tacked on.

Leonard holds Jim until the last of the tremors have passed. Then he kisses the nape of his neck and very carefully eases out of him. Jim is loose and limp against the rumpled sheets, his back filmed with sweat, his legs splayed wide. Leonard runs a finger down Jim’s slick inner thigh; the only reaction is a feeble twitch and a low moan that the pillows and his forearms muffle.

“Be right back,” Leonard whispers.

His knees almost buckle when his feet touch the floor, and he stumbles more than once on his way to the bathroom. 

Once there, he rolls the condom off quickly, knots the end, then drops it into the waste disposal unit under the sink. He washes his hands. Then he gets a dry towel and a damp cloth and goes back into the bedroom.

Jim has somehow found the energy to flop over onto his back, which makes cleaning him up that much easier. He seems perfectly relaxed as Leonard wipes sweat and semen from his skin, then pats him dry. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips folded in a drowsy smile. No one else gets to see him quite like this, do they? Perfectly pliant, he’s one of the most beautiful things Leonard has ever seen. Before he can stop himself, in a croaking, faltering voice, Leonard starts to tell him so, ducking his chin so his hair falls in his eyes. The words come out garbled, and that’s probably just as well. This isn’t a romance. It’s just … what it is. Sure, he’s a little bit in love right now, but that’s just how he is; he gives his heart, even when he knows he shouldn’t. 

“Bones.” Jim’s voice is rough.

Leonard glances up. He’s embarrassed, which, considering he was balls deep in Jim less than five minutes ago, is pretty fucking pathetic.

“Bones,” Jim says again. He tries to raise his arms; six inches off the bed is as high as they’ll go, but the gesture is easy enough to interpret. “C’mere,” he whispers. “C’mere, I need—”

The _you_ goes unspoken, and that’s fine. Leonard stretches out on the bed and Jim curls toward him, tangling their limbs. Their mouths meet in a slow, soft kiss, tongues sliding together, and that’s better than words. 

They make out lazily for a few minutes, and then lie still, just breathing together. Leonard feels himself drifting into that comfortable state between waking and sleeping. It’s so quiet. Winter vacation doesn’t end for another three days, and the dorm is still mostly empty. For all he knows, they’re the only ones here tonight. The air is perfectly motionless.

At length Jim stirs again. His lashes tickle Leonard’s cheek and his mouth moves, first around nonsense syllables, then actual words. Leonard’s brain is working sluggishly; it takes him a few moments to understand what Jim is asking.

“Wait – how many _what?_ ”

“Men,” Jim says again, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind Leonard’s ear. “How many men’ve you fucked?”

“Since when?” says Leonard, bemused. “Tuesday?”

“Since ever. No way I’m your first.”

“What makes you think that?”

Jim’s lips quirk. “You’re no amateur. That was no amateur fuck you just gave me.”

“I’m a doctor, darlin. I know a thing or two about anatomy.”

“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. I’m not jealous, or anything. I’m just curious. I don’t know anything about your sexual history. ‘Cept you obviously screwed your wife at least once.”

Leonard stiffens at the mention of Jocelyn. He doesn’t hate the woman – they had some good times, and she’s the mother of his child, damn it – but she doesn’t belong here. 

But Jim is still petting his hair, still looking at him like _that_ , and he finds himself relaxing, almost against his will. Jim is really just _curious._ Leonard considers his reply. He knows what the wrong thing to say would be: _You ask for complete dossiers from all your hookups?_

“Three,” is what he says finally.

“Including me?”

Leonard bites his lip. “Four,” he amends.

Jim’s grin flashes briefly. “Those other three were before the wife?”

“Ex-wife. Yeah, two of them were. The third one… That was just someone I met in a bar, after the divorce. It didn’t mean anything.” 

“The other two – they meant something?”

“One of them did. All right, I guess they both meant _something_ , but only one of them meant something … good.”

He remembers telling Jocelyn about Marc, and her response. They’d been dating about a month at that point, and had just started sleeping together. _But that’s over, right, Len? You’re done with that?_ Not meaning to judge, just asking, in her own way, _You’re not going to start this thing with me, and find yourself missing something I can’t give you, right?_

He’d loved her then, or thought he had, and gave her reassurances disguised as kisses and caresses. And yeah, for a while – for the first few years of their marriage – the only person he desired was Jocelyn.

“How many women?”

Leonard looks at him blankly for a few moments. Then, “Honestly, I don’t remember. Which doesn’t mean there were a lot. Just means my brain is fried right now. Definitely more than four.”

[snip]

“I got laid in high school, but I didn’t have a girlfriend until … Spent a summer in Galway, Ireland, and there was this girl…” He smiles, remembering burnished red hair, a pert mouth, and blue, blue eyes. “You kind of remind me of her. Just a little. Now that I think about it. She had nicer breasts than you.” He gives Jim’s nipple a playful tweak. “You’ve got a nicer ass.” Curling a finger under Jim’s chin, he tips his face back. “What’s this all about?”

Jim shrugs. “Just curious. More than four women?”

“Definitely more than four.”

“So, you prefer women.”

Leonard opens his mouth to say something, which comes out as a sigh. Jim is a numbers man, he reminds himself: quantity over quality, at least until very recently. “It’s … complicated. Right now I prefer you. Though I kinda prefer the more quiet you, who doesn’t ask so many damn questions.” 

“Sorry.”

He doesn’t _look_ sorry. There’s a glint in the blue eyes now. Leonard has seen it before, when a particularly interesting, challenging assignment has Jim focused. It’s strange being the object of such scrutiny. It’s flattering, in a way, and intimidating: he wishes his past _were_ more interesting.

“Sorry,” Jim says again. “I was just…”

“It’s okay.”


	8. The one where Jim and Bones have issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for SEX, featuring Jim & Bones.
> 
> This was supposed to be part of a flashback in [On the Windy Side of Care](http://archiveofourown.org/works/194144), but even though I really love, it kind of stopped the action for no good reason. The file is called "fight fight kiss kiss," which amuses me.

Bones will be waiting for him back at the dorms. He’ll pretend he wasn’t, of course, and there will probably be lots of gruff name-calling. But then maybe Bones will give him that look, the one he reserves for when it’s late and he’s tired of arguing but doesn’t really know how to stop. That little beleaguered look that Jim has come to interpret as a silent entreaty to jump in and save him from himself. 

That look is how they started kissing in the first place. One night last winter Bones was ranting – practically frothing – about idiot cadets and the trouble they get into. Jim was all set to walk out, when the look Bones gave him – brow pinched, eyes almost black below the curled lashes – hooked him under the ribs and reeled him back in. Trying to get a word in edgewise seemed futile, so he grabbed Bones and kissed him. Kissed him so hard that he cut his own lip on his teeth and tasted blood. He was sure he was going to get a punch in the gut. But then Bones started kissing him back. As if he’d been dying of thirst and Jim’s lips held the sweetest water he’d ever tasted.

Jim knew the risk he was taking, pushing his friend – his only real friend at the time –onto his bed and climbing on top of him. But Bones didn’t seem to mind. He dug his fingers into Jim’s shoulders and arched to meet his frantic thrusts. Afterward, he lay quietly in Jim’s arms, so quiet it was a little scary. Then Jim kissed his brow and ran a shaky hand through his hair, and Bones made a damp whuffling noise against Jim’s collar, and a comfortable stillness settled over them and it was okay. A little weird, but okay.

Bones is working through his issues, which are numerous and complicated, and Jim is helping him like the good friend that he is. Bones needs a friend right now, someone who isn’t going to judge him, who knows what he really means when the wrong words come out, who’s willing and able to scale the high walls he’s built around his heart.


	9. The one where Bones gets to know Jim's sister-in-law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All ages, featuring Bones and Sam Kirk's wife, Elisa. With background Jim/Bones and (obviously) Sam/Elisa.
> 
> This was going to be a scene in [Let It Shine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/139628). This whole fic drove me mad and I don't. know. why. I think I wrote every scene at least five times. This particular scene never made it into the finished story in any way, shape, or form. And I changed Elisa's name to Elise. Again, no idea.

It was Leonard McCoy’s first Hanukkah. He’d learned about the holiday in pre-school, and in the decades since then, he’d had a few Jewish friends, though most had not been particularly observant. The Kirks were not at all religious, which was one of the reasons the invitation to come to Iowa and celebrate with them had been a bit of a surprise. Not the invitation itself – just the purported purpose of the visit. “Mom likes some of the traditions,” Jim had said with a shrug when Leonard raised an eyebrow. “Guess they remind her of her childhood or something. We pick and choose.”

As he sat at her kitchen table, a glass of single malt Scotch whisky in his hand, watching her grate russet potatoes, carrots, and onions, Leonard decided he was glad Winona had chosen Hanukkah. It had no unpleasant associations for him, or any associations at all, really … except for a vague recollection of cutting six-pointed stars out of blue construction paper and dusting them with glitter. He liked the idea of winter holidays, especially those that involved cooking and candles, but Christmas was a thorny topic; the last time he’d celebrated at home in Georgia, his father had been so frail, his mother had been in a state of despair, and a frost had already settled over his marriage. 

Strange. This was the closest he’d been to Georgia in eight years, but he still felt light-years away. 

Not that he felt entirely present here either. Since his first sip of The Macallan, a strange detachment had slipped over him. He heard the rattle of ice in his glass, the sizzle of peanut oil on the stove, Nina Simone singing about love and heartache in smoky tones on the stereo in the living room. None of it anchored him. Both Winona and Elisa, who was only in the living room emailing her lab assistant a revised set of instructions, seemed very far away.

Leonard let his gaze wander to the window. He could see the front yard where Jim, Sam, George, and Alex were constructing their snowman. In the gathering dusk, with their faces mostly obscured by scarves and hats, it was hard to tell Jim from Sam. They were the same height, same build, had the same loping grace. Leonard hoped Jim wasn’t pushing himself too hard. He’d promised he wouldn’t lecture him in front of his family, but – damn. When one of the adults - _better the hell be Sam_ \- lifted Alex so he could place the snowman’s oddly elongated head atop his torso, Leonard had to glance away.

His eyes met Elisa’s. She leaned into the kitchen, her fingers curled around the doorjambs. She was fairly petite except for her belly, and she seemed in danger of falling flat on her face. Leonard shifted uneasily in his chair.

“I’m going to light a fire in the stove in the living room,” she said. “Want to help me get some firewood? You don’t need your coat; it’s just in the cellar.”

Leonard looked at Winona, who clearly didn’t need his help, then back at Elisa. He set his glass down and slid his chair back. “Be happy to,” he said as he rose to his feet. “Lead the way.”

He followed her through the living room and back into the front hallway. There she opened a door to what Leonard had assumed was closet, but which turned out to be a flight of wooden steps, leading down. 

“Lights,” Elisa said.

The steps creaked under their feet. The air in the cellar was cold and stale. Leonard rubbed his arms as he walked with Elisa across the concrete floor, his eyes taking in the clutter and the fine layer of dust that made it pretty clear Winona only used this space for storage. A couple of bicycles, a pair of snowshoes, and a wooden sled hung from the ceiling rafters. Leonard wondered if any of those things had belonged to Jim, if there were any fond memories tucked away here. On a low shelf that ran along the wall opposite the staircase, he noticed a stack of dilapidated board game boxes: Chess, Go, Scrabble, a couple of others he didn’t recognize. He tried to imagine Jim and Sam as boys, bent over a board game on a snowy night like this one. 

“So, what do you do exactly?” he asked when they stopped in front of a waist-high pile of firewood in the far corner. “All I know is it involves computers.”

“I do HCI research,” she replied. “That’s human-computer interaction. At the Okuda Institute. I work with computer operating systems, try to make them more user friendly. It’s really more interesting than it sounds, trust me. When you think about the number of different species in the UFP, She bent to pick up a couple of logs.

“Hey, give me those,” Leonard said, stepping in to take them from her.

She shook her head, clutching the logs to her chest. “I’ve got it. Trust me, I know my limits.”

“Glad someone in this family does.” The words came out more bluntly than he’d intended, but she only looked at him in sympathy.

“George and Alex idolize Jim,” she said. “He’s their hero. You should have heard Alex. The whole flight down from Seattle, it was Jim, Jim, Jim.”

Leonard remembered the silent three-year-old he’d met in the front hall. “ _Alex_ couldn’t shut up?”

Elisa smiled. She had a slight overbite, he noticed. It was cute. It made her look younger than – how old had Jim told him she was? Thirty-five? “Imagine coming face-to-face with your hero.”

“S’why I make a point not to have any.”

“Really?”

“Really. Maybe I did when I was younger, but I’m a doctor. We’re all made of the same damn thing, and it isn’t marble.” The look on her face was starting to make him uncomfortable. Not irritated, really, but … twitchy under the skin. Turning away, he bent to pick up a few logs of firewood.

“I guess that’s what I meant,” she said. “You see aspects of his life that we don’t.”

“I don’t want to talk about work right now.” Once again, the words came out more emphatically than he’d wanted. This time they were met with silence. Leonard swore to himself as he straightened. Focusing on the little crease that had appeared between her dark eyebrows he muttered, “Sorry. Believe it or not, I’m usually pretty good company. They don’t keep me locked up for diplomatic functions. Though,” he added with a sigh, “it’s been suggested. On more than one occasion. Fact, one year when we were at the Academy, I gave Jim this roll of duct tape as a…” He really did not want to talk about Jim, but he supposed it was worth it to see the crease disappear. He hoped she wouldn’t ask if Jim had ever put the duct tape to any use.

Fortunately, she only looked at him mildly for a moment more. Then she said, “Come on,” and started back up the stairs.

Back in the living room, she started to lower herself to the slate tiles in front of the stove. Her movements were awkward, and Leonard stepped forward instinctively to assist her, but she shrugged him off. “It’s okay,” she said with an apologetic smile once she was kneeling on the floor, her corduroy skirt spread around her. She sounded slightly out of breath, but she didn’t seem to be in any discomfort. She set her logs down and reached for his. “I’ve got it from here. Thank you for helping.”

“I meant it,” he said while she opened the air vent on the bottom of the stove and then reached around to grab fistfuls of kindling from the basket off to the side. “What I said earlier, about girls being the best. Not that I have any objectivity here. My daughter Joanna is fourteen. She’s in New Zealand right now, scuba diving with her mother and her stepfather. She’ll be back before New Year’s, and I’m planning on heading down to Georgia to see her. ”


	10. The one where Bones makes pancakes for Nyota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen-ish, since the sex is implied. Featuring McCoy/Uhura.
> 
> The file is called "mind control thingy" so I'm guessing this little idyllic scene is not all it appears to be?

She comes awake slowly. By the time she opens her eyes she’s forgotten what she’d been dreaming. It must not have been important.

Leonard’s side of the bed is cold, which means he’s been up for a little while at least. She can hear him in the kitchen – cracking eggs, it sounds like, and whisking … something ... around in a plastic bowl. Batter for pancakes, maybe. He’s humming. She likes his voice, especially in the morning. It’s lower-pitched then, rougher, more gravelly. New-made, she thinks. 

Nyota rolls onto her back and stretches. She’s naked and her body aches pleasantly. Arching against the sheets, she tries to remember what they did last night … and frowns when nothing comes back to her. Strange. Well, maybe not that strange. She’s been working hard lately. They both have. Still…

But she’s distracted by the flutter of lace curtains. She turns toward them and is struck by a beam of yellow sunlight. It warms her face, her breasts, her belly, and her thighs. She basks in it like she’s _starved_ for it, and that’s strange too because…

She can’t think why it’s strange. It’s just a tickle in the back of her mind. It’s often sunny here in Nairobi, where she and Leonard have been conducting their research for as long as she can remember.

Suddenly restless, she rolls off the bed. The wood floor is smooth and sun-warmed beneath her feet. She finds a clean pair of Leonard’s boxers and her gray Oxford hoodie. She’s had it for so long that the cuffs and the hem are frayed and the plastic on the drawstring is practically chewed off, but it’s the most comfortable thing she owns. 

Strolling into the kitchen, she finds Leonard standing by the stove in just his cotton pajama bottoms, flipping pancakes with a spatula.


	11. The one where Jim tries to befriend Nyota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All ages, featuring Jim and Nyota.
> 
> What it says on the tin. I think this was supposed to be a 5+1 fic. Like, 5 times he annoyed her while she was trying to do the crossword, and 1 time she didn't mind?

The first time, Nyota almost elbowed him in the gut. All the security officers in the mess hall – and there were a few, finishing up their breakfast – would have leaped to attention, but he'd have deserved it. Instead, hunching over her PADD, her teeth clenched, she said, "Captain, _please_ don't read over my shoulder. I _don't_ like people breathing down my neck."

She felt him back up. She straightened her shoulders.

Kirk said, "Sixty-five across is—"

"I _know_ what sixty-five across is," she said with more asperity than the situation probably warranted. 

"I don't see how," Kirk said, and she could _hear_ the smirk, "when forty-five down is wrong. It should be Navajo, not Apache."

"Captain…" she began warningly. She didn't need this. It was her first day working alpha shift, after two months of beta. Starfleet officers were supposed to be ready for just about anything, but she wasn't used to being up and dressed this early. If Lieutenant Kerry hadn't come down with Andorian shingles, Nyota thought wistfully, she'd probably still be in bed right now, with her coffee, her crossword puzzle, and Commander Spock.

"Sorry," Kirk said. "You know what you're doing. Carry on. I'll see you on the bridge."

Once he'd gone, she deleted "Apache" and entered "Navajo." She did it grudgingly.

*

The second time, he dropped into the chair opposite hers, flashed her a brief but brilliant smile, then bent studiously over his PADD while he ate his bacon and scrambled eggs. Nyota raised her eyebrows at his bowed head, shrugged, and took a sip of coffee. He was trying to be friendly. There was nothing wrong with that. It was certainly preferable to flirting, something he hadn't done since the _Narada_ incident five months ago.

Wait. He wasn't flirting with her now, was he? Gaila liked to say that Jim Kirk flirted the way other people breathed: he just _did_ it, almost without thinking. It was his natural state.

But Nyota was involved with Spock, as the captain was well aware. Surely…

Kirk glanced up and smiled again.

Nyota flushed – she hated being caught staring – and looked quickly at her PADD.

"I'm trying to figure out this one's theme," Kirk said. "I think it's Monopoly – you know, like the game – but then this one answer doesn't quite fit. Did you ever play Monopoly as a kid, Lieutenant?"

"No, Captain."

"My brother and I used to invite some friends over and play these week-long games. I swear, some of lasted almost the entire summer. We'd all have to swear solemn oaths not to move any of the pieces or steal any of the money while the others were away. Actually, since it was Starfleetopoly, it was credits instead of money, but the principle was the same."

"Captain," Uhura said through her teeth, "the theme is 'funny money.'"

"That makes more sense." She heard the soft tapping of his fingertips against the PADD's interface. After a few moments he said, "So, what kind of games did you play as a kid?"

"I—" She looked up at him again.


	12. The one where I tried to reboot "Return to Tomorrow"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated Teen for violence? Featuring McCoy, Kirk, Spock, and Uhura
> 
> This was going to be a reboot of the TOS episode "Return to Tomorrow." It eventually became [Hold On](http://archiveofourown.org/works/391003), which I eventually remixed as [Let Go](http://archiveofourown.org/works/95474). (I like the latter version the best.) I honestly have no memory of this outtake, so I can't tell you where it was going. I assume McCoy gets rescued at some point.

_Risk is our business._

It was a compelling argument. Not necessarily a convincing one, but then, nothing on God's green Earth – or any other planet, whatever the color – was going to convince Leonard McCoy that allowing three ancient, disembodied … _beings_ to "borrow" Jim's, Spock's, and Uhura's bodies so they could build android hosts for themselves was a _good_ idea. He'd said so, in fact, and he knew that if he'd kept on saying it, Jim and the rest would've backed down, no matter how excited they all were about hosting alien intelligences. That was the kicker: if he'd just been a little more stubborn, Jim would've _listened_ and they wouldn't be in this mess.

But, no. Because Jim had made a compelling argument: we're out here to take risks and if we didn't take them, we'd never have made it this far as a civilization. We wouldn't deserve to. _Risk is our business._

What he hadn't said, but what McCoy had known he was thinking was, _And how many times, Bones, have you risked your own life, whether it was playing the guinea pig with some new vaccine or antidote, or running headlong into enemy fire – because you wanted,_ need _, were compelled by the very essence of your being, to help another person?_

Which was all quite true; McCoy had the memories, if not the scars, to prove it. He would not, could not, have argued if Jim or Spock or Uhura had brought that up. None of them had, of course. It would have been a cheap shot, and they'd all known it. So instead they'd talked about lofty goals and a greater good, and how Sargon and his people weren't going to just walk off or beam off or whatever with their gracious hosts because … well, Jim trusted them. Trusted Sargon, anyway, who'd be riding around in Spock so that his wife, Thalassa, could borrow Uhura, leaving Henoch – the one nobody really trusted, but couldn’t exclude because that wouldn’t be fair – with Jim.

 _What could possibly go wrong?_ McCoy had thought bitterly, but in defeat.

Because unless it was a medical issue, in all the years they'd been friends, and in all the time they'd been … more than that – they'd never quite settled on a definition – Jim had only ever had to convince McCoy that _he_ thought he was right, that _he_ thought he knew what he was doing. And McCoy went along with it, whether it involved restraints or beaming down a planet where previous away teams had met grisly fates because he honestly trusted Jim that much.

So once more McCoy had swallowed his misgivings and said, "Fine, Jim. You've got my support. Same as always."

And Jim had given him that smile and said, "I know, Bones."

That was how it all got started. And for a little while, McCoy had had to admit that he might have been wrong. Watching genuine emotion march all over Spock's features as Sargon's consciousness filled him had been kind of a treat. The uninhibited passion with which he'd embraced Uhura-Thalassa had damn near given McCoy goose bumps. Glancing over his shoulder and seeing the cold hunger in Jim-Henoch's eyes as he'd watched the pair of them … that hadn't been so enjoyable. Seeing that ancient, alien soul staring out of those bay window eyes… Tied his stomach up in knots, if you wanted to know the truth. Nor had he liked the way Jim-Henoch had looked at _him_ , as if he were eyeing … a pet or a goddamn piece of property for which he did not much care. But McCoy had swallowed the sudden coldness in his throat, reminded himself that the android construction wouldn't take long, and besides, Jim was still in there somewhere and he had as powerful a will as any man McCoy had ever met; he wasn't about to let Henoch dominate him completely.

(There'd been the option of removing Jim's, Spock's, and Uhura's consciousnesses to repositories while the androids were built, but Jim had nixed the idea, almost out of hand, and McCoy, who understood Jim's control issues almost better than anyone, had quietly backed him up.) 

That was how it started. And for a while, everything seemed to be going well. McCoy and Chapel couldn't help with the androids, but they took turns staying close by, making sure everyone's vital signs stayed within acceptable limits. The possession caused metabolism and blood pressure to rise – which meant Spock-Sargon and Uhura-Thalassa couldn't get _too_ exuberant with each other – and McCoy was prepared to pull rank and call the whole thing off if anyone started to look even the slightest bit distressed.

 _Shouldn't have waited,_ he thought as Jim-Henoch's fingers dug cruelly into his bicep, putting so much pressure on the median nerve that his index, middle, and ring fingers went numb and he dropped the hypospray he'd been clutching. His stomach sank as it clattered across the laboratory floor. _Should've trusted my_ own _instinct, for once. Goddamnit, I hate being right sometimes._

When and how Henoch had snapped, McCoy did not know. Nor did he care. He'd returned to the laboratory – following a quick nap and a bite to eat in his office – to find Spock and Uhura limp on the floor, Chapel nowhere in sight, and Jim-Henoch looking like he probably knew exactly what was going on. 

"Doctor," he'd said, turning, and McCoy had thought, _Oh, shit, here we go, I goddamn knew it_. He'd hidden the hypospray behind his back and started fiddling with the settings as Jim-Henoch advanced. The hypo contained a few more powerful sedatives than the mild relaxant he'd meant to administer, but there was at least one he couldn't give Jim on account of his goddamn allergies.

"You know," Henoch had said conversationally, with Jim's voice, "at first, I'd objected to keeping the minds in the bodies. I thought it would be crowded. I was wrong. It's actually been quite convenient and … interesting. I don't mean his inexplicable physical attraction to you," he'd gone on with a dismissive wave, which had caused McCoy's stomach to clench. "I mean … right now he's trying to warn you. He's actually screaming in my head … our head. And you can't hear a word." 

_Fuck it_ , McCoy had thought, bringing up the hypo, _I've saved him from worse things than anaphylactic shock_. But by then it had been much too late. With ridiculous speed, Jim-Henoch's hands had shot out and seized McCoy's arm.

 _So much for that,_ McCoy thought as he watched the hypo skitter away. He struck out with his free hand, kicked at Jim's shins, and then they were grappling, clawing at each other as they crashed to the laboratory floor.

One small mercy: Jim might have had an extra mind in his head, but his strength was in no way enhanced.

Why that mercy was very small indeed: McCoy was bigger physically, and had done fairly well in self-defense training, but he wasn't a fighter, never had been. Jim, on the other hand, had spent the better part of his life jumping from scuffle to scuffle. On top of that, McCoy was wary of hurting Jim, and Henoch seemed to have no qualms at all about killing his opponent. It was like wrestling with a wild cat; Jim-Henoch was all claws and teeth and desperate cruelty.

So, once McCoy got a good grip, he held on like more than his life depended on it. That was all he could do: just cling and endure the merciless blows and buffeting, and hope like hell that Chapel came back or Jim clawed his way up through Henoch's madness. He felt things break inside him – blood vessels, bones, and ultimately his heart as he clung, and stared pleadingly and determinedly into the wild blue eyes and did not recognize the soul staring back at him.

_Please. Dammit, Jim, please._

His own consciousness crumbling, it occurred to him dimly that Sargon and Thalassa were in there as well. How that had happened, and why Jim was neither dead nor comatose from the overload, were far, far beyond him. Now Henoch, now Thalassa, now Sargon flashed in the blue, blue eyes. 

"Let go, he'll kill you." That was Thalassa, he thought. Cool, practical.

"Doctor, we are sorry. We are trying to control him, but he is very strong." Sargon, the responsible one.

"I could break you with a thought." And that would be Henoch. Jim's lips were pulled back in an ugly sneer as the words snarled out of his mouth.

McCoy thought, _I'm already broken, damnit,_ and held on. He must be running on sheer adrenaline.


	13. The one where Spock and Nyota have an open relationship (kind of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teen-ish for vaguely mature themes. Background Spock/Uhura, implied Uhura/Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/McCoy, and Spock/Other. Sanctioned infidelity, I guess.
> 
> This, bizarrely enough, ended up turning into [If You're On Fire, Show Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/804909), which is just SEX SEX SEX. A friend had asked me to write a Kirk/Uhura/McCoy threesome, and I struggled for a while with the plot. Finally I realized that the plot was getting in the way of the sex, so I pretty much scrapped it altogether.
> 
> There isn't actually any sex in this snippet, though there would have been, I guess, if I'd continued it.

She can just hear her younger sisters, Sanaa and Amira: _You’re such a hypocrite, Nyota. You always acted like you were too good for any man, and you return from space with not one man, but two! Neither of whom is your husband._

Okay, maybe the Sanaa in Nyota’s imagination sounds a little more waspish than she probably would in real life, but she isn’t wrong. Nyota’s husband, Spock, did not return to Earth with her after the _Enterprise_ docked at Utopia Planitia Shipyards following the completion of its first five-year mission. Instead, he’s on the new Vulcan colony of Vokaya, fathering an heir with a woman selected by the Vulcan High Council. He’s doing what he perceives to be his duty, and he has her blessing. 

He could have said no, or done his duty from a distance. He would have if she’d asked him to; they both know that. As his wife, she had every right to deny or limit his participation. 

But that would have meant forgoing centuries-old rituals that are important to Spock, that are probably important to his Vulcan partner and that may be important to the child she’ll eventually bear and raise. 

They’re important to Nyota, in a secondary sort of way. They don’t affect her personally, but they remind her that Nero’s victory was not absolute. 

She isn’t jealous. She misses Spock, but not every second of every day. He’s in her mind and her heart; in the instant before sleep and the instant before waking, she can feel him. He’s like morning mist, burning off as the sun rises, a curl of smoke thinning and disappearing into the air.

And when she doesn’t feel him, she has Jim and Leonard for company. 

For all her skill with language, Nyota isn’t sure she can ever properly explain her relationship with these men to Sanaa and Amira, or even to her parents, who know her better than almost anyone. Her parents and her sisters - her Terran family - haven’t been to the edge of the galaxy with her. They haven’t seen whole worlds implode before their eyes, or starships rent apart like paper birds. They haven’t made first contact with new species. They haven’t been facedown in the mud of an alien world, awaiting death or rescue. They haven’t seen a nebula from the inside, the rose-gold tendrils flecked with newborn stars. 

They haven’t sat at their stations for hour upon hour, just waiting, listening for some indication of life out there in the cold and dark, or from the planet turning slowly below the ship. A word, a scream, anything.

Which is not to say she feels this close to the entire crew of the _Enterprise_ , even though she’s shared these experiences with a number of them. Spock, Jim, and Leonard are special. They’re her family in space. Spock is the closest to her heart, but he isn’t here right now. Jim and Leonard are, and they need her as much as she needs them. 

So they’ve come to Jim’s old home in Riverside, Iowa because it’s so close to where the three of them first met eight years ago. It’s early October and the leaves are turning. They flutter in the breeze, blindingly bright whether the sky above them is steel gray or robin’s egg blue or some shade in between. They make no sound, but in Nyota’s mind they chime softly, like tiny bells, as she and Jim jog silently beneath them.

They run down dirt roads that meander past farmhouses, corn and wheat fields, and apple orchards, toward no discernable destination. The horizon is far, and on clear mornings it ripples and shimmers like a ribbon, making it seem illusory. Nyota, who grew up in Nairobi, Paris, and New York, who spent summers at Oxford, and who climbed Mount Kilimanjaro once a year with her family and watched the sunrise from its summit, begins to understand how a person could get stuck in a place like this. Even a person like Jim Kirk.

They run slowly because Jim’s left knee hasn’t been the same since Liga, despite surgery and physical therapy. He doesn’t ask Nyota to slow down for him - he never would - and she doesn’t offer. He doesn’t say _Go on ahead, don’t let me hold you back,_ which saves her the trouble of brushing his grudging altruism aside. She could always run circles around him; she was a track star in high school, after all. This is her sport. She doesn’t feel the need to prove it anymore, though. Not with him.

They run every morning, unless it’s pouring and Leonard gets to the front door before they do. A couple of times, they do manage to sneak out before he wakes up and return to the farmhouse soaking wet and shivering. After administering a blistering harangue, Leonard hauls them bodily to the second-floor bathroom, turns on the shower - the Kirk farmhouse has old-fashioned plumbing - and orders them to strip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry I ended things there. ^_^


	14. The one where Jim is angry at Bones for not siding with him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All ages. Kirk/McCoy, with the rest of the ensemble.
> 
> Ugh, I wish I'd finished this one. I don't remember why I stopped. It must have just fizzled out on me. Basically, it was an exploration of the idea that Jim might actually be a little angry with Bones for not siding with him against Spock in XI. Obviously they were going to forgive each other, but in the meantime there was some tension. It also dealt with Bones and Chapel trying to keep sickbay from exploding while the _Enterprise_ lurched back to Earth.

At first, Leonard McCoy paid little attention when the Sickbay doors slid open. People had been coming and going all day since their escape from the black hole that had consumed the _Narada_ , mostly to request stimulants or to receive treatment for minor bruises and burns. The more serious cases - the severe burns, the compound fractures, the concussions - had all been seen to. Or so McCoy thought. In any case, nobody had alerted Sickbay to the fact that another badly injured crewman was on his way.

So he didn’t look up, not until a woman, her voice raw but familiar, said, “Leonard - help.”

Then McCoy turned, saw who’d just come in, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he was having an attack of some kind. 

Then the moment passed and he snapped back to himself with what felt like a thunderclap behind his eyes. While Sulu and Uhura struggled with Jim, who hung between them, head bowed, McCoy barked for assistance. Between the Vulcan battle and the ship damn nearly getting wrenched apart, there were no free beds. But Chapel came running with a gurney and that, McCoy decided as he helped Sulu and Uhura with their limp burden, would just have to do.

Jim was actually semi-conscious, though almost completely incoherent. He muttered, his head lolling on McCoy’s arm, his lashes twitching. Once Jim lay supine, McCoy ran a quick scan, which revealed nothing surprising or especially alarming: fever resulting from exhaustion, dehydration, and untended wounds, plus hairline fractures to the middle ribs, clavicle, and left zygomatic arch. No damage to the trachea, despite the ugly bruises decorating his neck – not all of which could’ve resulted from Spock’s assault, McCoy was certain.

“Where did you find him?” he asked after sending Chapel to fetch the osteogenic stimulator, saline for an IV, hydromethacin for the pain and to bring down the fever, and everything else McCoy would need to clean and dress the multiple abrasions and contusions.

“In a Jeffries tube,” Uhura said as they pushed Jim’s gurney behind a curtain. There wasn’t much space, but they squeezed him in beside the bed already there. In all likelihood, Jim would be back on his feet well before Ensign Martinez – who was recovering from head trauma and multiple fractures – woke up. “He was just … curled up in there. Just lying there.”

“It took both of us to get him out of there,” Sulu continued when she trailed off. “Not just to bring him down here, but to get him out of the Jeffries tube. He didn’t want to come.”

McCoy glanced up at them. They were hollow-eyed and swaying on their feet. He put a hand on Uhura’s shoulder, felt her shiver. “Both of you, get some sleep,” he said. 

Sulu started to protest. “We’re not the only—”

McCoy cut him off with a glare; he’d heard this argument from just about every crewmember he’d seen since the _Narada’s_ destruction. “You’re the goddamn pilot,” he said, waggling a finger under Sulu’s nose. “And you—” he went on, squeezing Uhura’s shoulder “—are in charge of Communications. Maybe I’m just an old worrywart, but I don’t want a pilot who looks like he could fall asleep at the helm. Or a communications officer who looks like she’d stumble over her own name. Find someone to relieve you, and go to sleep. That’s an order.” It would have been better, he thought, if he could have stifled his yawn.

A corner of Sulu’s mouth lifted slightly. “Gonna take your own medicine, doc? You don’t look so hot yourself.”

“Never mind about me,” McCoy said, releasing Uhura and turning back to Jim. Where the hell was Chapel? “I’ll take a break once he’s taken care of. Go on, now. Get out.” He gave them a dismissive wave with the back of his hand.

“I’ll inform Captain Spock,” Uhura said.

McCoy stiffened. “ _Captain_ \--”

“He’s Acting Captain while Kirk and Pike are incapacitated.”

Oh. Right. Well, maybe that was a good thing; maybe it would keep Spock on the bridge, and out of his hair. “Fine,” said McCoy, shrugging. “Whatever. Tell him, then go to bed.”

He listened as they started to leave. Then Jim whimpered and McCoy forgot about everything else. Stroking the hair away from his too-hot forehead, he said softly, “Just hang in there, okay? It’s gonna be fine. _Despite_ your best efforts.” He felt a surge of anger, but all that came out of his mouth was a tired sigh. “Why didn’t you come and find me, or comm me? I’d’ve come running. I always do.”

Jim’s eyelids fluttered, and his dry, blood-crusted lips parted. The sound that emerged might have been a word, but McCoy couldn’t hear it, so he bent lower. “What was that?”

Jim’s eyes opened a crack, revealing a sliver of glassy blue. His voice was so rough and so low that McCoy had to strain to hear what he said, which was: “Not you.”

McCoy froze.

A moment later, Chapel returned, apologizing for taking so long – another patient had needed pain medicine, and the other two nurses on duty were occupied. McCoy shook himself. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, which was sufficiently uncharacteristic for her to goggle at him briefly. “Just help me with him.”

Together, they began to strip Jim. As they cut Jim’s shirt away, revealing the ugly bruises across his chest and all down the undersides of his arms, Chapel caught her breath. McCoy kept his mouth shut, though he was aware that his reaction would probably have been the same if he hadn’t been prepared by the tricorder scan. 

“We’ve seen worse,” he reminded Chapel tersely as he reached for the osteogenic stimulator. 

“I know,” she replied. “I’m just surprised he didn’t come in for treatment before now. These have to be at least a day old. And painful.”

The idea of Jim Kirk coming to Sickbay for bruises and minor fractures was laughable, but McCoy lacked the energy for a witty remark. “Meet Jim Kirk,” he said dryly. 

While Chapel started the saline drip and administered the hydromethacin, McCoy worked on the fractures. They were simple enough. Jim could look forward to some tenderness for the next week or so, but it wouldn’t slow him up any. The damned idiot probably wouldn’t even notice. 

Once the fractures were taken care of, McCoy and Chapel set about cleaning, disinfecting, and dressing the remainder of Jim’s wounds. 

“I can do this myself, Doctor,” Chapel said at one point. “It’s well within my area of expertise. If you need to—”

But he just grunted and shook his head. He tried to work quickly and dispassionately, but detachment had never been easy for him, not where Jim was concerned. His wounds weren’t serious, but the sight of them still tore at McCoy’s insides, and his words reverberated in his skull. 

_Not you._

What did that mean?

He could think of two possibilities, but he supposed he’d have to ask the kid when he woke up again. Which wouldn’t be for a while, giving him time to prepare himself. Jim had fallen into a fitful doze shortly after Chapel returned, but McCoy gave him a sedative anyway, just to make sure he stayed asleep. He didn’t want Jim snapping awake and tearing down the corridors because of something he’d half-heard over the intercom. 

After Chapel left, McCoy lingered by Jim’s side, absently smoothing the thermal blanket tucked around his shoulders. As the hydromethacin kicked in and the saline drip replenished his electrolytes, Jim’s fever began to come down. McCoy could tell just by watching him, and listening to his deep, even breaths. 

_Not you._

“Not me what, Jim?” he murmured. “Not me taking care of you? Sorry, I’m the only one here.” He pressed the heel of his palm against his brow and shook his head. Then he had to clutch the edge of the gurney and wait until the wave of dizziness passed. “Damn, I need to get to bed.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, and that was … not good. “I’ll be back. Don’t do anything crazy in the meantime.”

He glanced around to make sure they were alone. Then he bent over Jim again, whispered, “Sweet dreams, darlin,” and brushed his forehead with his lips. He wished he could have stretched out beside Jim, wrapped his arms around him, and held him until they were safely back on Earth and this nightmare was truly over. 

Instead, he rose slowly, wincing as his vertebrae popped, and shuffled off in the direction of the on-call room, grabbing a couple of extra blankets on the way. All of the cots had been moved into Sickbay’s main area and were occupied by patients, so McCoy dropped his blankets to the floor, toed off his boots, and sank down. He curled up on his side. As his eyelids drooped, it occurred to him that he should have told Chapel or one of the other nurses which patients they could discharge, assuming their conditions continued to improve. He wished he’d told her to intercept all his communications, and not to disturb him unless there was an emergency. 

_Fuck it,_ he thought. Then he fell asleep.

* * * *

He had weird, vivid dreams. Jim was in danger. Jim was calling to him for help, but McCoy turned away. _Not now, Jim,_ he said in his dream. _I’m busy._ And he was. He stood surrounded by bodies of the wounded and dying, but he wasn’t in his OR. He was outside, with the Atlanta sun hot on his neck, the red earth baking beneath his feet. Everywhere he looked, there were bodies. Shoulder to shoulder, they stretched all the way to the shimmering horizon, and nausea bubbled in McCoy’s throat. The words _six billion_ flashed through his skull, and from far, far away, Jim screamed as if in mortal agony, _Bones!_

He awoke in a cold sweat, his heart racing. For a few terrifying moments, he didn’t know where he was. It was too dark to see, but he sensed the closeness of the walls, and he knew that he was on the floor. Had he been captured? Was he in a cell?

No, he thought, ruefully as he pushed himself up on his elbows, they don’t usually provide you with clean blankets when they toss you in a dungeon cell. 

“Computer, what time is it?”

“ _Shipboard time is 05:14.”_

So, he managed to sleep for almost five hours. Telling himself that he wasn’t shirking his responsibilities if he tried to get just a little bit more rest, he settled back against his nest of blankets and closed his eyes.

Seconds later, it seemed, someone was shaking him awake. “Doctor McCoy? Doctor—”

He opened one eye, and glared blearily into Chapel’s pale, pinched face. “What?” 

To her credit, she seemed unfazed by his snarl. “Acting Captain Spock is on his way down.” While he spluttered and struggled to rise, she continued, “I told him you were resting, but he insisted. I asked him to give you fifteen minutes to go over the charts. He said that was acceptable.”

“Good.” He managed to push himself to his knees.

“It also gives you time to eat. There’s coffee and oatmeal.”

“Chris, you’re an angel.” 

“They’re not hot, and there’s no sugar or syrup or anything else.”

He’d have been shocked by anything different, but he only said, “I’ll keep ya anyway.” He stretched, and groaned as his joints protested. “Damn it, ow.”

She took his arm and pulled him the rest of the way to his feet. He tried to help, but he ended up flailing and crashing against her, almost knocking her to the floor. “Sorry,” he said when they were more-or-less upright, and able to let go of each other. “Did you sleep at all?”

“For a little while.”

“I see. Did you give yourself a stim?” His tone was blunt. He didn’t approve of stims, except in emergency situations; the body generally ended up paying for that borrowed energy. But he supposed they were still in a state of emergency.

“Yes,” Chapel replied.

“Get me one, and get me those charts.” 

“Yes, Doctor.”

* * * *

By the time Spock showed up, McCoy had the situation well in hand, or imagined that he did anyway. He’d taken a cursory glance at the charts; cleared Beto, Vang, and Andris for light duty; and checked in on the severest cases, including Pike, who was still unconscious as expected. He didn’t have time to look at Jim.

Just as well.

McCoy watched Spock closely as he went over the situation in sickbay, describing in detail the procedures he’d performed on Pike, their results, and what he intended to do once they reached Federation space and he had access to a better-equipped facility; _Enterprise_ ’s medical instruments were state-of-the-art, but so much had been damaged in the two skirmishes with the _Narada_ , or used up in the aftermath.

Spock listened, his hands clasped behind him, his brow furrowed slightly. He seemed completely alert and unstrained; the wrinkles and stains on his uniform were the only indications that he’d been through any kind of ordeal. 

“Thank you for that update, Doctor,” Spock said when McCoy stopped talking. “You will be pleased to learn that the _USS Yorktown_ is scheduled to make rendezvous with the _Enterprise_ in three-point-five Standard hours. All injured officers and crew will then be transferred and transported to Federation space at warp speed, while repairs continue here.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” McCoy said, even as he wondered why Spock had felt the need to come down here and tell him this in person. Maybe he regretted their spat on the bridge, and wanted to make amends? Not likely, he realized, but…

As he remembered his heated exchange with Spock, Jim’s words came back to him for the first time since he’d woken up. His stomach clenched, and he had to look away from Spock’s face.

“Doctor, are you quite well?”

“Fine,” McCoy muttered. “Just thinking I ought to go with Captain Pike. Not that I don’t trust the doctors on the _Yorktown_ , but…” 

“Understood and anticipated. I have already discussed the possibility of your transfer with Captain One. If you will submit a request for temporary reassignment to the _Yorktown_ , I shall see that it is approved.”

McCoy looked sharply at Spock. Did he imagine it or was there a brief flash of satisfaction in the dark brown eyes? “Now just a second,” he began.

“Is there anything further to discuss?” Spock asked in a bland tone that made McCoy’s skin prickle. “A temporary reassignment is logical. Moreover, you need not worry about the crew in your absence, as Captain One has offered the services of her own Chief Medical Officer, Doctor Geoffrey M’Benga.”

“I know him, he’s good,” McCoy said, feeling somewhat deflated, and not really sure why. It wasn’t as if there’d been time for him to grow attached to this particular crew, and it wasn’t as if the transfer were meant to be permanent. He’d be back on the _Enterprise_ \- assuming they didn’t court martial his ass for sneaking Jim aboard. 

“Then I believe everything is settled,” said Spock. “Now, if I might have a word with First Officer Kirk…”

So that was why he’d come all the way down here. “You can’t,” McCoy said. “He’s asleep, and I’d like him to stay asleep for a few more hours. He needs it. Practically had to be carried in here. In fact—” He bit his lip. He’d been about to say he wanted Jim transferred to the _Yorktown_ too. Just to keep him out of trouble. Somehow, though, he didn’t think that would go over well with Spock, who seemed to have established an odd kind of rapport with the kid, despite their inauspicious beginning. 

“Doctor?” Spock prompted, his eyebrows raised.

“Never mind.” The only way he was going to get Jim to the _Yorktown_ was unconscious, and Jim wasn’t so badly injured that McCoy could justify going over his head. “Come back in an hour or two. J-- I mean, First Officer Kirk should be awake by--”

“I’m awake.”

McCoy swore under his breath as he turned in the direction of the muffled voice, Spock following. He jerked the privacy curtain aside and, sure enough, there was Jim, attempting to push himself up on his elbows, and trembling visibly with the effort. The thermal blanket had slid down to his waist, revealing bruises that stood out darkly against his pale skin. McCoy stole a quick glance at Spock, but he seemed unmoved by the sight of the finger-shaped marks around Jim’s throat.

_Typical,_ he thought, turning back to Jim with a wrathful expression.

“Bones, I want you to take this IV out.”

“Oh, _do_ you, now?”

“ _Bones_.” Jim’s expression was hard; he clearly wasn’t playing. “I need you take this IV out so I can talk to Spock. We can’t talk here.” He jerked his glance at the bed beside his gurney, where Ensign Martinez still lay unconscious. Looking back at McCoy and holding out his hand, he said, “C’mon.”

McCoy didn’t like the peremptory tone.


End file.
